Purely Platonic Sleeping
by ParisNeverEnded
Summary: "She was sleeping in his bed. Again."Irene Adler's trips to Sherlock Holmes' bed are getting even more frequent which surprises all parties involved...
1. Flustered

Purely Platonic Sleeping?

"_She was sleeping in his bed. Again__."Irene Adler's trips to Sherlock Holmes' bed are getting even more frequent which surprises all parties involved..._

A/N It's multi-chapter, inspired by _that _scene when she's sleeping in _his _bed, plus I needed to write and I love writing about those feminine/sexy/clever/flirtatious/manipulative women that make that _one _ man crazy like Vespa/Bond, River Song/Doctor Mrs Coulter/Asriel and to an extent the cold exterior of Mary Crawley. Irene Adler is the perfect combination of all, and although I love the film versions of Irene/Sherlock and how their relationship is portrayed Moffatt is wonderful in creating this show and A Scandal in Belgravia made me fall head over heels in the show and the TV versions of them. Adler is so ass-kickingly cool and Sherlock...have you seen his eyes!

* * *

><p>She was sleeping in his bed. Again. He'd come home after wrapping up a case at the yard to find her delicately sprawled across his bed, as if to make her mark, to make <em>his <em>bed _hers_. She was cocooned in his sheets and Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow when he realised her choice of attire, or rather lack of. Her clothes pooled on the floor at the foot of his bed yet she had brought nothing else on this escapade...except of course that dastardly phone.

Silently he stepped through the open doorway towards the pile of clothes. He reached down and touched the items, not for pleasure of course but to find that phone. However upon close inspection it would seem that the offending item was not here and Sherlock quickly stood up.

"Sherlock,"

His eyes darted immediately to the bed, but the occupant was fast asleep, he cursed himself silently a nano-second later, upon realising it has been Watson's voice calling him from the front door and not that _woman. _Unnaturally flustered he exited his bedroom to see what Watson wanted.

"There you are, Mycroft wanted to give you this but you left before he could-" Watson stopped himself midsentence when Sherlock came into view and he could appreciate the flustered look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean what's wrong?" He breathed, pushing past Watson and towards his arm chair.

"Just...You look-...Flustered?" Watson frowned as his tried to pinpoint a word to describe the conversation.

"Nothing to worry about, all's well. But now the hunt is on for a new case." Holmes said in a bored tone, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the table.

"Okay then...I'll just be getting that book from your room you don't mind do you?"

"NO!" Sherlock doesn't know why he John had been the first to know, what was so different no?

"No?" John raised an eyebrow.

"No...I don't want you going in my room." Sherlock said feigning boredom.

"Okay...Well I'm going to make some tea then,"

Sherlock did nothing in response instead merely choosing to stare at his selection of Russian Literature on the top shelf of the bookcase.

It took John Watson 3 hours and 48 minutes and 33 seconds to realise there was a woman in the apartment, more precisely _that_ woman. He closed the door behind him and looking shocked returned to the living room. "Since..." He stuttered. "When has Irene Adler been alive...Let alone sleeping in _your _bed!"

Sherlock didn't respond and picked up his violin instead.

"Miss me?" Irene whispered into John's ear.

He jumped up in surprise and immediately turned round to see Irene Adler yet again naked but alive! He looked quickly away from her to Sherlock still playing the violin.

"Can somebody please tell me what the devil is going on?"

"I'm alive, can't you see?" She said seductively turning around so he could see...all of her, _again. _"I wouldn't worry though, I'll be going soon." And with that she wandered back to Sherlock's room, with presumable intentions to actually get dressed.

"Sherlock." John asked again, but he was paying him no attention, his entire focus on the violin.


	2. Minight Surprises

**A/N I****'****m back and it feels good to write so much, I don****'****t know where this inspiration is coming from but I****'****m taking it! I already have more ideas of the development of this story but I do not have a specific goal in mind, purely to write until my inspiration well dries up. To those that asked me why I referred to John as Watson, you were far to kind in insinuating it might have been artistic talent trying to mimic the holy Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, however truth be told it was a mistake, because I am so used to writing Sherlock from the recent 2009/2011 films and merely a habit that I will try from now on to stop. I hope it delivers to your expectations and isn****'****t a bit to dry, I do tend to write a bit selfishly for myself and so I appreciate it won****'****t be to everybody****'****s taking. **

_Disclaimer: I__'__m sorry I forgot to put this at the beginning of the first chapter. The characters are not my own, sadly, that credit goes to Steven Moffat and the BBC and of course Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _

She was sleeping in his bed. Again. It had surprised him a mere five weeks after the second time, he'd awoken just after midnight to find his bedroom door open and a silhouette, a very feminine silhouette step in. She had stripped down, thankfully or unthankfully (he felt both relief and a thirst for more to complicate matters) maintaining a shirt before sliding into the bed, _his _bed, They're both surprised when he doesn't move, when obviously he's fully conscious and his mind is wide awake (not that his mind ever relaxed). He could flee but instincts were telling him to stay, it wasn't as if they were having _dinner_...and logically how much sleep was he to get if he did in fact leave his bed to vacate the armchair in the living room, especially if he was constantly thinking about _her_ and what she was doing in _his _sheets. At least this way both parties could maintain a substantial level if sleep and he could watch her to make sure she didn't do anything; yes, he told himself that was why he wasn't moving, hadn't moved, wasn't going to move. He turned discreetly to look at _her_, the woman, but the beautiful woman lying next to him in nothing but a shirt, upon close inspection _his _shirt, was fast asleep.

It was that feeling when he awoke, of another being pressed into his side that change him. A rush of emotion cascaded throughout his entire body, an emotion so great and so real even the great Sherlock Holmes could not pinpoint. The emotion, however pinochle it was to be, for both parties involved, sadly quickly passed and he was soon analyzing Ms Adler's unconscious physical attachment to him. She was gripping his shirt so tightly as if she never wanted to let him go. It was rather eye-opening in a psychological stance.

He'd be lying if He'd said he did not like it, but he just couldn't comprehend if he actually did like it. The feeling of being wanted, lusted for, he didn't care for such notions but with Irene Adler _everything _was different. That feeling of waking up beside her was good. He declared it in his mind pushing any other answer out of the way, whatever it was it was good.

Suddenly she gripped him tighter and whimpered in her sleep. Unknowing and unpractised in such displays, Sherlock knew nothing as to what to do to calm her, he wasn't as cold hearted and psychotic as everybody believed or at least not when Irene Adler was concerned. He wondered, as he stoically manoeuvred his hands to her back in an action he had seen mothers to do babies in times of distress, if she realised how much of herself she have away in her sleep, as if she did why was _she _letting _him _see _he _Sherlock sighed with relief when she subconsciously relaxed her grip on him and carefully extracted his arms from around her. He laid there for a moment logically seeking a solution to exit her grasp, that although was lax in comparison to what it had been moments ago is still tight and he desperately wants to escape the bed where she is sleeping, again, not because he doesn't like it (because he's got mixed feelings on the matter) but because the emotions that are swarming his brain re rather annoying and he'd much rather seek out another case. As careful as before, he uncurls her fingers from his shirt (the one he's wearing that is) and gently sidles from the bed. He doesn't know why he's being so careful, he'd never usually be like this, but then again he doesn't usually sleep with women, especially not _her_. Just as he reaches the door she moans and he watches as she says still delirious from sleep. "Stay."

He shakes his ever swarming head and leaves, closing the door behind him.

He still doesn't know why he hasn't told John that there's a women, _that _woman sleeping in _his _bed, again. It's like his brain is protecting it like a secret, however Sherlock doesn't worry, as it only takes John 2 hours and 4 minutes exactly "He's getting better at this," Sherlock notes; to realise _she _ is still vacating _his _bed. Sherlock was merely surprise that she was still asleep, let alone still her when John splutters "Why is Irene Adler asleep in your bed, again!"

Sherlock merely sighs and picks up his violin, once more.

"Did you...urgh, _sleep_ together?" He says awkwardly stressing the word 'sleep' as an innuendo.

"I can assure you Irene Adler and I have a purely..." Sherlock paused, in a rare occasion to pinpoint the correct word to describe their...relationship?

"Platonic relationship?" Irene calls out from what seems the hall.

**A/N2 I have to just say thank you for all your lovely reviews they are much appreciated! I spent all day in breaks from class and the occasional note taking in class to write the next few escapades of Irene Adler ****'****sleeping****'**** in**_**his **_**bed**_**.**_


	3. Hurt

**A/N Thank you for all the lovely reviews. It****'****s so sweet that you have all taken the time to write such sweet thing! Yes I am a fan of AVPM...I do try ;). I****'****ve never written so much, let alone so quickly, the next chapter will be up by the end of Sunday 15****th**** (dependant on my revision schedule). **

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Again. _

She was sleeping in his bed. Again. It was the 4th time this had happened and he'd come home mid-case to find the door wide open and a smashed glass in the kitchen. He presumed the worse and checked out the apartment, waiting for somebody to pounce, but all he could find was the sleeping body of a woman in the darkness of _his _bedroom. Her body poised in the foetal position and her face covered by the sheets, frowning Sherlock takes a step closer, accidentally letting more light stream into the room from the doorway. She awakens and he's slow to leave, she raises her head from under the sheets and even in the darkness with the trickle of light seeping through the doorway of the room, he can see her face. Bruised, yellow and blue and purple, her delicate porcelain complexion has been ruined, and a deep scarlet scratch runs across her face.

He feels anger instantaneously, he's registered emotion for this woman, he smiles inside, he's capable of love?

"Sherlock?" Her voice is scratched and low.

He knows it's taken a lot for her to let him see her like this, so vulnerable. The dominatrix was letting him in, she felt something and knowing that felt good. "What happened?" He's more than angry, he's furious with those that had dared touch her.

"Moriaty." She whispers.

He feels sick, the emotions inside him go bezerc, what is going on inside?

She tries to roll over onto her should but she screams in pain. That's when he realises there's blood seeping from her shoulder. She's hurting and that only makes him hurt more, unable to trust himself to speak he opens his phone and urgently texts John "Come quick to 221b, medical help needed. Only you- SH.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and notes the blood stains on _his_ sheets from her shoulder, even in such a vulnerable state shewas making _his _sheets _hers. _"John's on his way," Sherlock says awkwardly.

Irene's face immediately drops and she throws back his sheets. "Got to go," she mutters "Didn't meet to stay. Sorry." He deciphers from amidst her screams, when the pain from what appears to be a bullet wound hits her.

"Get back now." His tone is authoritive and it shocks them both. Again. He takes her hand and guides her gently back to the bed, he winces when she winces and his face physically drops when she wails. He knows she doesn't want him to see her like this, but he's glad she is. He's gradually coming to terms with his...Affection?

4 minutes and 17 seconds of awkward pacing later, John arrives in a frenzy almost ramming the door of Sherlock's bedroom down.

"I'm here, what's happened? Johns shouts with utter concern, however he tails upon seeing Sherlock seemingly well, at least visibly and turns to the figure vacating his bed. He knows it's her, the woman, despite her distorted face it's clear by the perfume in the air and the fact only one woman would dare vacate his bed, make _his _possessions, _hers_, and her name was Irene Adler.

"What the hell happened?"

"I don't think that is of our immediate concern John." Sherlock says "Have you got your medic bag?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock in a very un-Sherlock natured way, had held her hand as she winced and desperately tried not to scream as John extracted several pieces of glass from her shoulder and disinfected it where he announced the bullet had merely grazed her shoulder. Sherlock didn't exactly have a choice though, to hold her hand, he tried telling himself. Irene had grabbed his hand so tightly when John had first began to extract the glass he thought <em>he <em>was going to need medical assistance. He hadn't given his hand voluntary, but he knew and so did she, that had she not done so that he may have given her his hand regardless.

It had shocked John just as much as the others that she had returned, to Sherlocks bed once more. That she had chosen _him _to come to in time of great need. Again. John was about to comment but Sherlock closed his eyes as he picked up his violin once more, Sherlocks mind only filled with her. She was sleeping now, in his bed, with painkillers to knock her out 'til morning. She's dressed in his clothes thanks to him, as he was the one to draw the short straw (or so his logical side of his brain kept telling him), to have to dress her. He'd gulped and refused to be tempted by her, to feel any _sexual _emotion, which was easy as he wasn't hungry and in no need or dinner, or so he kept telling himself.

* * *

><p>She wakes up at 7, just as Lestrade walks into the apartment, yesterday's case had been thrown from Sherlock's mind and he'd told the detective he was no longer interested, the force would have to finally solve a case without Sherlock as he had more pressing matters to deal with, mainly Irene Adler and Jim Moriaty but he didn't tell the detective that.<p>

It shocks both John and Sherlock how at ease she is in their apartment when Lestrade leaves, after Sherlock rather impolitely slams the door in his face. He finds her sitting in _his _chair, making it _hers, _when he turns round. Un the natural light of the morning her wounds look worse and more horrifyingly real than they did yesterday. She grits her teeth as he studies _her_ body, almost like he was trying to make it _his. _  
>"It hurts like hell." She says, wincing as she adjusts herself in his chair.<p>

"I can imagine." Sherlock responds.

He sits down in another chair, furious that _she_ was still sitting in _his _chair. They sit in silence, merely staring at one another, studying the being in front waiting for them to make the first move. She's tired and her body aches a thousand times over and she isn't in the mood for any standoff with _him. _She gives up and he feels bad, he'd pushed her to talk and something was very wrong is she'd given in so quickly.

"He's after me, I left his service and he doesn't like it. He did this." She gestured to her body.

She stays for another night, using the day to mostly taunt Sherlock by vacating _his _chair, whilst he plots what to do. She doesn't't expect _him _to do anything, which is why he's so determined to do something...to protect _her. _John checks her over before leaving for a date, leaving _him _and _her, _together, alone, at night. They don't talk that night, she plays on his phone, flirtatiously sitting in _his _chair in only _his _shirt, legs over one arm, her head over the other. She may be bruised and hurt, but she was still Irene Adler and she knew how to make him...smile?

**A/N Thank you once more for reading this, it means a lot. Until the next time.**


	4. An Almost Dinner

**A/N I had to look everywhere to find my notes for this one, half of it was scribbled in my RE book under Ecumenism and the other on the back of my Chemistry notes and the plot lines on my iPod. I had to also re-write some as my original notes were lost on my Economics worksheet (which I have seemingly misplaced).****I appreciate this may be a bit risqu****é**** and my readership may instantaneously drop but this is what I believe could happen. **

**A/N2 This is a bit AU, in the sense I wrote this before the last episode (not that it was strictly sticking to the plot before), but just to clarify that it****'****s got nothing to do with the last episode as you will see from the start. **

_Disclaimer- I wish it was all mine but alas that is not to be...perhaps for my 16__th__ Birthday?_

She's sleeping in his bed. Again.

_An Almost Dinner_

She'd came as soon as she'd heard Moriarty was dead and John in critical condition. She was not surprised in the slightest, that Sherlock wasn't with him in the hospital instead choosing to mope about 221b Baker Street. To any other person he would have appeared callous, cold hearted, incapable of emotions, of love; but Irene Adler knew better, she knew this was his only way of dealing with loss. John Watson meant so much to Sherlock and that was why he was here, alone, composing music staring at the Russian Literature on the top shelf. She wouldn't't be so vain as to say that he would do the same for her, but she was vain and she already knew he had, and would do. The emotions crippled her, she was gay, but her attraction to this man was undeniable. It was there and it was huge, everything about him was perfect his brain was incredible and they were incredibly suited.

Swallowing, she made her way to him, putting her arms around him; she feels his heart beat faster underneath her fingertips. He puts the violin down and there's silence in the air, but suddenly in an action that shocks them both, he turns into her, grasping her hands in his. They stare at each other, brown boring into blue, the intense gaze makes her heart beat faster.

He's losing his best friend, and he's here. He knows he's affirming the suspicions of others, that he is callous and cold; but he can't face it, not on his own, he cannot do it at all, it'll hurt far too much to watch and he is unpractised in such emotions. He feels something for John. Not the emotion he has for Irene, but it's still there and it hurts. He's surprised she's here, angry that she is, happy that she is. She's a wonderful distraction from the deterioration of a man in a hospital bed, and she knows it.

She knew he wasn't going to make the first move, he was never going to make the first move. It wasn't that he didn't want to, just he couldn't, and that was ok, she understood. There was no love in their actions, what they felt was undeniable but this time, these actions, they weren't't about love or any other caring emotions, they were about a mutual bond to forget. They were kissing, or she was kissing him, he was merely responding. They were people, clever and cunning, passion wasn't their forte and right now that was perfect. She grabbed at his lapels, pulling him closer, exploring him, making _him, her__'__s. _He responded in a way that astonished them both, he was learning, for the first time since meeting her, he could finally claim a little bit of _her _as _his._ It was heated, his jacket was swiftly discarded, his top button undone and she's suddenly moving them from the room, towards his.

She's not surprised he's letting her in, he's hurt and she'd learnt many times before that sex was a wonderful way to forget one's troubles.

He's surprised he's letting her do this, but his brain can't think straight, he can't process anything; he's too wound up in all these new emotions a new primitive desire runs through him.

He's marking her as his,

She knew she had to stop now; they were getting to the point of no return, when she knew whatever she wanted she just wouldn't be able to stop. She didn't know why she wanted to pull away, this was her domain, yet she secretly knew she didn't just want sex from this man, he meant more to her than that, he wasn't just any man he was Sherlock Holmes, he was incredible and she was wrong to force her remedy on him.

He's both surprised and annoyed that she just suddenly stops, and even more angry that she isn't looking at him.

"I'm sorry." She whispers, reaching over to her coat and slipping something into her hand.

* * *

><p>The first thing he realises when he awakens is that it's dark, he's not completely with it and he can still see strange shapes dancing around the room. He vaguely remembers a woman, <em>the woman, her, <em>and then nothing.

"Sherlock sleep." It's her voice again.

He struggles, but he turns, she's right next to him, tired and half asleep, dressed in his shirt and he smiles, or at least he thinks he does because he's not really sure about what's reality and what he's dreaming. He's pretty sure he's dreaming now. But maybe not...

* * *

><p>He's head hurts, something's pounding against his skull, but at least he can register he is in fact asleep and not dreaming. Everything suddenly comes rushing back and he's able to process it all, his disorientation has left him and he's able to establish that <em>she<em>_'__s _sleeping in _his bed. _Again. Andis the hard thing burrowed into his side. He's angry at her, she drugged him, right in the middle of...She really was a black widow! He get's up quickly from the bed, not caring in the slightest if she wakes up (which she doesn't) and leaves the room. He's surprised to find himself dressed, or at least partially, he doesn't remember having this much clothing on before...Shaking his head, trying to rid himself of all memories of her, which is hard to do considering she is in fact sleeping in his bed a mere few meters away. Determined not to give her the satisfaction of returning to the room, he wonders into John's room and throws on any random combination of clothes, he's not fussed; he was the man that flew to Buckingham Palace in a sheet he definitely didn't care if he went out with two odd-shoes or a mismatched shirt-trouser combination. He had to think and get away from that _woman; _she'd taken it too far, yet again. She was driving his crazy, and certainly not in a good way.

He exits the apartment leaving the door wide open as if an invitation for Irene when she gets up to actually leave him. Alone. He's angry, he's furious and doesn't care where he ends up, but he is very surprised when he looks up to find himself a mere three streets from the hospital, John's hospital. He angrily curses Irene Adler for this, he doesn't care she's on the other side of London asleep in his bed and not here, everything is her fault, everything is always _her _fault.

She's still there when he returns and he smiles. He's not angry, not anymore. He still doesn't understand her actions but he's glad she did, but he'd never give her the satisfaction in admitting that.

Irene hadn't been shocked when she'd woken up alone in his bed with merely his pillow to comfort her. She had drugged him, and he was never very nice to her when she did that. What she had been shocked at what the fact that she'd stayed, all day alone in his apartment, taunting him by making everything of _his, hers. _The mismatched stacked books in the corner were now alphabetical and his clothes now smelled of her Parisian perfume.

She's strumming _his _violin again with her manicured fingers whilst sitting in _his _chair, whilst wearing _his _shirt.

It was that moment, with her making _his _stuff _hers, _does he finally realises she's beautiful. Before it had been about her brain, her blatant flirting and the fact that he couldn't read her; but now he suddenly began to see what everybody else did and he smiles.

"Let's have dinner."

**A/N Sorry for the Amount of Author Notes here, just to say thank you for everybody that pointed out the mistake of ****'****vacate****'**** in the first chapter and also a massive thank you to you all for reading this and reviewing! It****'****s definitely helped. I know I said this would be updated on Sunday but I questioned if this was ok and good enough, and I intended to scrap it all and start again but upon reading my revised version I realised this is much better. Anyway hope you review!**


	5. Sulking

**A/N I was for the first time struggling to write this, (the first three chapters I wrote the plot ideas at the same time) but suddenly I was at the end of my Poetry exam today and suddenly it popped into my head and I spent all day writing notes in the corner of my school books...Thank****'****s once more for all the reviews they do mean a lot! Oh and Inky-Cat, I****'****m not hungry. **

_Disclaimer: Nope not mine. Again. _

She's not sleeping in his bed. Again. It's been three months since the last time she was there. He's worried, frustrated, angry, happy, he feels them all but tries to feign indifference. It's hard for his frustration not to affect his work though, and after the first month of trying he gave up, he didn't seek out cases anymore, preferring to sit in 221b Baker Street with violin in hand, playing night or day. Lestrade had begged him to take cases and although Sherlock didn't refuse, he just did them quickly and from the comfort of the apartment.

It got so bad that John was ready to beg Mycroft to do a mass global search for Irene Adler, however he knew she would still infuriatingly pass undetected and plus Mycroft still didn't know she was alive. Again. It was absolutely frustrating that Sherlock was miserable and although he would never admit it, it was because of _that _woman. John hadn't had a date in two months because Sherlock had been even more rude and annoying than usual and every date he had been on had been interrupted by him. John hadn't been entirely angry, all the women were unexciting and been quite boring, but it was still annoying. Just because Sherlock had found a woman, didn't mean John couldn't be happy (not that Sherlock was remotely happy) and try to find one for himself. He'd never believed it before but he was finally beginning to wish Irene Adler was here. She was good for Sherlock in a non lovey-dovey emotional sense, because he knew the pair didn't have that sort of relationship, but in a he's different-but-in-a-good-way sense when she's around him.

Sherlock's sulking. Still. Violin in hand, staring absentmindedly out the window, so as not to see anything that would remind him of her. Like the alphabetical stack of books or the small drop of red nail polish which she'd 'accidentally' gotten on _his _desk last time she was here, or even the lack of sufficient dust on the shelf where she'd trailed her hand up and down that one time.

"I'm going out, do you need anything?" John called, as he pulled on his coat.

Sherlock didn't respond, merely choosing to continue to play and stare at the street below. John rolled his eyes and opened the door, leaving his friend alone.

He sighed in relief when John finally left, he doesn't know why. His brain is broken, it's not working, he can't concentrate and doesn't know why. He's a mess and he knows it and secretly he knows why. She's disappeared, hasn't texted him, or phoned him or slept in his bed. He's worried, something's definitely seriously wrong, what if she's in trouble? What if she's dead?

What annoys him the most is that he has no clue where she's gone, she's so hard to read, to understand and it annoys him. It wasn't like anything was different the last time they met, or at least behaviour wise. She had been the same flirtatious Irene Adler she had been the time before and the time before that, what the hell was going on!

"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

He leaps up from his chair in utter surprise when he hears her voice. She's not dead. His initial surprise and happiness quickly passes, when he turns to see her standing in _his _doorway he's suddenly angry with her, annoyed, infuriated that she'd left for so long without telling him a thing. What tops it all off is that she's sauntering towards him, acting as if nothing is wrong, when she reaches him and smirks flirtatiously he loses it, she goes to trace her fingers up his chest which he can only connote as a sexual gesture and he just flounces off. He can't stand seeing her here, not after all this time. He leaves her and heads in the direction of his room slamming the door shut like a teenager, sulking like a toddler.

Irene Adler just looked on, raised one eyebrow and smirked

* * *

><p>Three hours, twenty-four minutes and thirty-nine seconds after Sherlock Holmes slammed his door shut, the front door opened and John Watson entered with a woman. He's shocked when he opens the door to see another woman, <em>the woman, <em>sprawled across Sherlock's chair in a suggestive pose, a book of Russian Literature open in her lap.

"Hello darling, you're home early?" She whispers grinning.

He gulps and sighs, this is not going to end well, but then again it never did when Irene Adler was involved.

"John...Who is this?" The woman asked accusatively.

"She argh..urgh..I-" He mumbled.

"I'm his wife." Irene said confidently. "Who are you?" She smiled.

"I...Never mind now. John why didn't you tell me you had a wife..." And with that the woman rambled on angrily at John, Irene merely tuned out and went back to her book, it was rather interesting. No sooner had she'd turned the page than did she hear the distinct sound of a slap and the door to the apartment slam shut.

"What was that for?" John asked angrily.

"She wasn't right for you anyway; she's got fifteen cats if you must know."

John sighed, no wonder Sherlock liked/loved/held some sort of feeling for this woman, she was just like him.

"Why are you here?"

"Because Sherlock is sulking."

"I AM NOT SULKING!" Came the loud response from Sherlock's bedroom.

John sighed once more, this was going from bad to worse and he was right in the middle. Sure enough, Sherlock's door banged open and he came stomping into the room.

"She goes away for three months, makes no contact what so ever and then comes waltzing back and acts as if everything's okay! But the thing is it ISN'T!" Sherlock blares.

"Since when did I have to check in with you every second of the day, darling? I thought you liked the mystery." She's taunting him and she knows it.

He's standing there just staring at her, angry that she's not shouting and angry that he is.

She's touched that he cares so much and almost annoyed with herself that she just said that.

* * *

><p>She's sleeping in his bed. Again. Alone, and now she's not actually sleeping; she knew she was here, she could hear the violin playing through the walls. She secretly commended John for being able to sleep through this racket, but then again she knew that the noise wasn't the reason why she couldn't sleep. It was more the lack of him, here with her. The last three months had been tough, but she had to get away from London not least because of work, but because she was scared. She had suddenly realised what Sherlock Holmes meant to her and it was scaring her so much. She hadn't known what to do, so she did what she did best and fled, she'd trapezed with South African businessmen in Cape Town and sung cabaret for a certain New York Senator but in the pit of her stomach she knew that this wasn't what she wanted, not anymore, which is why she'd returned.<p>

When she enters the room, she knows he knows that she's there but he doesn't move nor acknowledges that he knows. She just struts up to him, slipping her arms around him.

"How were your escapades?" He says nonchalantly, finally putting down his violin and shrugging her off of him.

"Let's have dinner." Is all she says, moving towards _his _chair, making it _hers_.

"I'm not hungry." He responds.

"Good. Me neither. Let's have dinner."

He doesn't respond. He's still angry at her.

She wakes up when the sunlight begins to stream through the windows. She's pressed up against him and she smirks. In all honesty, she has no idea how she's come to be in such a position, all she can remember is falling asleep in _his _chair, listening to him play, waiting for him to talk

**A/N I have one major worry that due to the amount of dialogue I****'****ve made Sherlock OOC, I promise that if you think I have I will most definitely quadrupily make sure I never do it again! I didn****'****t want a sappy ending as that always seems OOC and I have no idea what possessed me to put one in but Voila, it****'****s done...eek Hope you still enjoy it though! Reviews are welcome 3**


	6. To Return

**A/N Sorry for the long update, I don't want to bore you with the reasons other than it involved GCSEs, SAT prep, and panic attacks. I received a nice message from a member a few weeks ago, asking if I was ok, just a shout out to say that was so sweet and sorry I have only just seen it (so thoughtful). I promise if I ever have a hiatus that long then I'll pre-warn you guys, it's the least I could do. Furthermore I've re-read the previous chapters and other than realising my bad spelling (damn autocorrect on iPods) that I write really long Authors Notes that tend to ramble (This is a prime example) I promise in future they will not be this long! **

**Just to add though, (so that it makes sense) although this is AU it either takes place after Reichenback or a similar circumstance where Sherlock is left blacklisted. **

_Disclaimer: Not mine, belong to Steven Moffatt (who tweeted me twice!) and the BBC _

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><p>He's sleeping in her bed.<p>

He was pale and gaunt like, dirt covered his face and leaves were mattered in his hair, Irene closed her eyes at the sight of dried blood that clung to his face, neck, and scalp and winced. The past two months had taken its toll on Sherlock Holmes, the (in)famous detective, and sleep had quickly overcome him without the assistance of any drugs. Despite his current state, Irene would almost go to say that he looked peaceful and at least a tiny bit beautiful. Previously she'd thought of him as sexy, of course but only fully recently, as truth be told other than the intensity of his blue eyes it had merely been his bran that had truly entranced her, his extraordinary abilities.

She'd received a text from his early that morning.

_Belgrave Square, 12pm –SH _

_Who says I'm in London?- IA_

_Me.-SH_

_You're not dead, let's have dinner- IA_

_12pm- SH_

Her breath had been caught when her phone buzzed and she'd looked down to see _his _message, he wasn't dead. Of course, she'd never expected him to agree to dinner, not right away, gosh that would be too easy what was the fun in simplicity when they could a game. She'd win of course, she always won, even if she let Sherlock think he'd won, as she'd done, she did and she always would.

She arrived at the gardens a few streets away from a house she owned or at least an alias of hers owned at 11:59, oh did she like to infuriate him. She saw him instantaneously, looking tired and haggard and she knew if she had not been her and not had her experience with the contours of his face and body...She would not have known it was him, which was precisely what he was going for now he'd been blacklisted by the police, the government and society.

"You look awful." She smirked sidling up to him. "Let's have dinner."

"I'm hungry." Sherlock said bluntly. "But not for sex." He added after looking at her shocked face.

"Did _you_ the infamous Sherlock Holmes actually say you were hungry? Or are my ears deceiving me!" She chuckled after composing herself.

"I haven't eaten more than a bread roll in 5 days 6 hours and 17 minutes Irene." He almost pleaded with her and she felt sorry for teasing him.

"What have you been doing for the last 2 months?"

He didn't answer her right away merely choosing to stare at her, studying her face, her beauty? He'd admitted that to himself months ago, before he'd been blacklisted that he had some feelings for he, he just hadn't admitted what type they were, he'd been adamant to John that it was purely plutonic but their actions had proven different... He was at a loss, despite two months to think about such feelings. He'd missed her, though he'd never tell her that, he'd missed randomly walking into his apartment to find her asleep in his bed, he'd missed her intense flirting and everything about her.

"Why are you here?" He asked, ignoring her question.

"I could ask the same question Sherlock."

"You're not safe in London." He hissed.

"I'm perfectly safe, unlike you."

"You could get caught."

"I'm better than you Sherlock." She smiled.

He rolled his eyes at her statement. "Where are you staying?"

"Townhouse in Eaton Place." She responded slowly.

Irene understood this was his way of asking her if he could stay with her. However it wasn't like she was going to reject the man she was in...a complicated 'platonic-but-really-the-opposite' relationship with; even if he'd infuriated her for the two months he'd 'played dead'.

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><p>She'd sent him to her room to <em>her <em>bed as soon as they'd walked through the door, as much as she wanted to find out what exactly he'd been doing for the last two months she wasn't as cold as one would think and did hold at least some of his best interests at heart. As soon as Irene heard her bedroom door shut, she sighed with relief. That insufferable, infuriating man!

He'd left for two months making her truly worry underneath her exteririor. She was suddenly scared for her feeling towards him. She knew what she felt; they'd already shown one another what it was without admitting it themselves, but now it frightened her. She couldn't afford to worry about the most reckless man on the planet who could easily kill himself daily from the uncontrollable experiments he committed. She pressed her hand tighter into the kitchen island until her knuckles turned white. The pain of that-feeling-she-held-for-him was tearing her apart, scaring her so much she could easily run from this house and never return. Tears streamed herself when she slammed her fist onto the counter, she never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again.

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><p>He was still sleeping in <em>her <em>bed. Making _her _things _his_; when she slipped into the bed next to him. It was hours since Irene had sent Sherlock to her bed, and now Irene was exhausted, her eyes were still red and there was still moisture on her lashes, but Irene had for the second time returned from a situation that pre-Sherlock she would have instantaously ran away never to return. It was a testament of their 'platonic' relationship and it made her smile. She was exhausted and closed her eyes, not caring at her proximity to the dirty blood covered man next to her. He was Sherlock Holmes and she was _entranced? _by him.

**A/N2 Thanks for all the lovely reviews tso far they really do make my day , I hope I haven't dissapointed you with this chapter3 **


	7. Hate not Love

She's sleeping in his bed. Again.

It was becoming routine now, to come home to find his bed occupied by the person that he despised and never wanted to see again. The mighty Sherlock Holmes had finally opened up his heart in a way to a woman and what had she'd done? After all she'd promised over not leaving ever again, or least leaving spontaneously without telling him, she had left, shattering not only all of her promises but Sherlock Holmes' heart.

In the past, he had been angry that she'd left, not understanding why but after the week they'd spent at her townhouse, after he'd turned up from his own disappearing act, he'd honestly thought everything had changed. That even though they hadn't directly proclaimed love or any emotion of that nature, they had both let their defences fall enough to have 'dinner' and even though John would never get it, yes it was a euphemism. They had woken up every morning for a week their limbs intertwined with one another's; they had flirted without any soppy mushy emotional stuff. They'd had sex, multiple times in a day, and although they knew that the other cared deeply for the other they didn't say anything. Proclaim the three words that still refused to be uttered from both his and hers' lips. They weren't ready to admit it yet.

But then she'd disappeared on the 7th Day. He'd woken up to an empty bed, but thinking nothing of it he'd continued his now daily routine around the Eaton Place townhouse, believing that she'd merely gone out for necessities. As although he personally could never imagine Irene doing anything domestic he did suppose she had to eat and when the fridge was empty there was only one way to change that. He didn't worry when the clock struck 12 and she hadn't come back, even though London wasn't safe for her, he did know that she was good and she was properly doing something completely illegal. He'd been naive to think that any actions that would have committed during that morning were to be purely for his benefit, and not for 'clients' of hers. He did however start to worry when the clock struck 3 and she wasn't back, yet at this time it was only a nagging sensation at the back of his head, there but not so prominently. In all truthfulness it was only when the grandfather clock in the hallway struck 9pm did Sherlock honestly full out start to worry. It had been over 12 hours since he'd seen her. He paced the hallway, the living room, the drawing room, the library and finally the kitchen. It was then; as he did start pacing the new modern styled kitchen did he see it. A white piece of paper on the kitchen island with handwriting that was distinctly Irene's on. He was still naive, infatuated with affection to this woman that he'd been blinded to her true nature; her manipulative, selfish nature that ruined everything and everyone that she touched.

_The Vanderbilts return tomorrow, kindly put everything back in its place_

She hadn't even signed the paper but he knew it was from her, his anger bubbled immediately after reading it. In his anger Sherlock had slammed his fist into the marble counter and then reeled back in pain. The blood was hot and sticky as it gushed from his cuts and by the time Sherlock had managed to turn up outside 221B Baker Street he had matching cuts on his face and arms. In his shock of seeing his best friend alive, John hadn't even questioned on how he'd encountered such grazes, he hadn't known about Sherlock's week with Ms. Adler and John hadn't mentioned her since Sherlock had returned.

Sherlock's anger of being manipulated by the dominatrix hadn't gone in the four months since he'd returned from 'death', it had merely been covered up. That was, until he'd walked into his bedroom one afternoon to find _her _ in _his _bed. _Again._

Anger seethed through body, overriding any sense of logic. It was a dangerous emotion and Sherlock never did well with emotions. It took all of his self control not to stride the three metres from the door to the bed and shake her senseless. He shook his head and walked away from his bedroom. He hated this woman, he really honestly to God he did...then why did he walk away?

He let her be, let her sleep. He'd find out why she was here, making _his _stuff _hers, _later, and then he could chuck her out of his apartment never to see her again.

It took five hours and darkness was beginning to trickle through the window before Irene Adler strode out Sherlock Holmes's bedroom. Five hours in which Sherlock had sat, read, stood up, paced and played the violin. None of which he'd done so with his usual enthusiasm or skill, his mind constantly brining up the fact that there was a woman, a very twisted, sick, psychopathic, dominatrix type of woman sleeping in his bed. He'd even planned their conversation which usually went along the lines of her needing something from his (i.e. protection) and him kicking her out of his apartment when tried her advances on him. However deep in the back of his mind, he must've known that his relationship with Irene Adler was anything but from easy and things _never _went according to plan.

"Sherlock."

She said his name simply, quietly and softly, an unusual combination for Irene Adler who more often that not was seductive in her softness and loud and firm in her voice.

Sherlock looked in surprise, shock and horror as he looked her..._all _of her. Her face was still the same, as beautiful as ever but slightly tired looking and she had no makeup on. Her hair too, perfect but a little messed up which was understandable for she had been sleeping for the last four hours and more. No it wasn't her upperhalf of her body that surprised the consulting detective. No. It was her stomach. Her rather large, rounded protruding stomach that stretched out in front of her.

"You're pregnant?"

It was a fact and yet he phrased it as a question, as if not fully comprehending the situation before his eyes...because it's true he really wasn't. She couldn't be. Irene...pregnant...baby...They were three things that Sherlock would never ever believe would go together. Irene, like Sherlock himself were not parent material, she was cold-hearted like he was, she was manipulative and a total bitch to be frank, oh and she was a dominatrix. So by definition, Irene Adler could not be pregnant.

"Yes." She drawled out with a nervous smile.

Sherlock blinked thirty two times, trying to comprehend and understand the look on this woman's face. Was it...? Could it be...? Was Irene Adler the infamous seductress nervous?

"Who?"

He doesn't know why he voiced the question, it was none of his business who the father was and his question, just one word, one syllable surely wasn't enough for her to understand his implications. _Who was the father?_

In truth he doesn't want to know the answer. He doesn't want her to utter a name, a name he's never met nor never wants to meet. He was still angry at her, for betraying him, leaving him, hurting him, he wanted her out, for her never to come back, because he doesn't think he can deal with her saying a name. He's about to tell her to get out, that he doesn't care, that he doesn't want to know her answer he just wants her out, but there's something in her eyes. Fear. Sadness.

"You." Was all she uttered.

"No." Sherlock shook his head and he saw a tear trail down her porcelain cheek.

"Yes."

"But-"

"It's happened Sherlock so don't bother denying it."

"I-" He tried to retaliate but she cut him off again, she was so close to tears but he knew she was determined to say what she needed to say.

"I know you hate me."

He didn't bother to protest. He did hate her.

"But I have no one to go to. I don't do relationships. I don't HAVE ANYONE TO GO TO." She was yelling now, tears rolling down her cheek haphazardly.

A storm was brewing outside in the semi-darkness and it was mirrored in the woman standing in front of the almighty Sherlock Holmes.

She was almost deranged, laughing as she shook her head. "I HOPE YOUR HAPPY NOW. I KNOW I'M A COLD SELFISH BITCH...I KNOW EVERYTHING I TOUCH I RUIN. WHATEVER I DO ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH, I END UP DESTROYING EVERYTHING, EVERYONE I LOVED. I FUCKING LOVE YOU SHERLOCK. I LOVE YOU."

She was crazed, standing in the middle of the living room yelling at Sherlock, who stood passive, silent to her yells. He'd visibly flinched when she'd said she loved him, it hadn't been the usual three words that had connotations of romance, but five rather unlikely words, a combination never seen together. Her revelation surprised them both and she shut up instantly, realising what she had just said. She'd admitted her one true fear, to not only herself but to the said man. The one, the only, _the _Sherlock Holmes. The infamous detective who was known for his cold heart and inability to love. She turned silently on her heel, unable to look at the man in his silence, he didn't love her back, it was true. He was heartless.

On seeing her move towards the door he did something, the most surprising thing to have ever happened to him. It was the biggest surprise that Irene too had encountered on her many travels.

"Irene, wait..." She stopped but didn't turn around. "I don't hate you."

It surprised him because it was true. Now looking at her, as the beautiful sensual woman who had this unique ability to cause a feeling in Sherlock Holmes' heart, he realised that after these four months he didn't hate her. Quite the opposite.

She knew he'd never said it directly. Sherlock Holmes had come a long way since they'd first met but he was still incapable of voicing his feelings. However those four words had shocked her beyond belief, they meant more to her than any other words that can be voiced from his ever so luscious lips. They insinuated the three words that any other man would have been gushing to say but Irene wouldn't have cared, this man in front of her as she slowly turned to face him was all that mattered. She loved him and right then, despite him not voicing similar words she knew he did, and she'd wait for all eternity to hear him say them.

FIN

**A/N The End. I know, I've got the tissues here if anybody wants them. I want to thank you all for staying with this story for these seven chapters, these reviews have been phenomenal to me, I'm glad you all have enjoyed it so much! I really really do appreciate all your support. I began it as a way of therapy in a way to get over exam stress and nerves; it might not have succeeded but it definitely inspired me to get back into writing.**


	8. Epilogue

They're sleeping in his bed. _Again. _

John looked on from the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom to see the Adler Holmes family asleep on his bed. 18 month old Sébastian Harrison John Adler Holmes (no hyphen) was sucking his thumb, sleeping peacefully in between in his parents.

Everything had begun to change the day Irene Adler had first slept in Sherlock's' bed. The duo's platonic relationship had been feasible, both Irene and Sherlock were the cleverest people John knew, and yet their _'purely platonic sleeping'_ had resulted in a pregnancy and an amazingly handsome and adorable baby boy (however that was given with Irene's looks and Sherlock's cheek bones).

Sherlock Holmes had once been a cold-hearted, arrogant, blunt and far too clever for his own good man, and in many ways having a romantic relationship with Irene Adler and becoming a father had not changed Mr. Holmes. He was still arrogant, blunt and are too clever for his own good and his cold hearted exterior had not all left him. But Sherlock had adapted to fatherhood remarkably, whilst Irene gallivanted across the globe on business (real business Sherlock had assured, not euphemisms required). Sherlock truly cared for his highly intelligent son, who at 7 months had spoken his first words but who had also unfortunately inherited both his parents' stubbornness and thus had refused to walk till well after his first birthday. Even now, he still preferred his top of the range (naturally) stroller to walking hand in hand with any adult.

John glances around the room; Sherlock's moderately spacious room was very overcrowded. Sébastian's crib was pushed against the wall away from the window and possible hazards, but there was less that a 20cm gap inbetween the wooden bars of his crib and the edge of Sherlock and Irene's bed. A rocking chair was next to the crib, allowing only one door of the wardrobe to open fully. Toys littered the room (as did they in every room of 21b Baker Street, John's room included) and a changing table had replaced Sherlock's mahogany desk by the window. Who could have suspected that babies needed so much stuff?

The bedroom was cramped and had been since Sébastian had been born. Neither Sherlock nor Irene had asked John to move when the new addition had arrived and the four of them (well mainly 3 as Irene was often on business) settled into routine. However Sébastian was growing older and bigger and the apartment was beginning to feel cramped with all of them, John had long decided when he'd first encountered Sherlock and Irene is compromising positions on the sofa (as they couldn't use their room as the baby was there) that this was a temporary thing. He would move eventually, and looking around at the beautiful family and their cramped room he made his decision that within a week he'd be fully moved out of the Baker Street apartment, hopefully his newest girlfriend Sarah wouldn't think him too forward if he asked to move in with her already...

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><p>She awoke first and smiled almost immediately after wiping the sleep from her eyes. Before having a child she wouldn't have ever considered 'napping' during the day, but in the 18 months little Sébastian had been around she'd considered it a godsend. Irene stared intently at her son, who'd insisted with sleeping with Mummy and not in his cot. He was still remarkably tiny, with tiny fingers and tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny toes, the only thing not tiny about him was his intelligence (duh) and his screams. Irene had been warned before that babies tended to scream, she'd been expecting it but not to this extent. For all of his ability to hold a fairly intellectual conversation (for a baby) his screaming was a nightmare, but she loved him, even when he pushed her limits. She'd worried ever since she'd found out she was pregnant that she would be unable to love this baby, it had been her worst nightmare and it had only been when he'd finally arrived did her fears get washed away. She loved this baby beyond belief, and she was now certain Sherlock felt so too. He was yet to say the three letter words to her, but she'd heard him talk to Sébastian whilst trying to get him to actually sleep and he'd pronounced his love for the tiny baby on countless occasions.<p>

"I'm glad you came back."

Irene blinked and glanced over and Sherlock on the other side of the sleeping baby, originally it was supposed to just have been Irene and Sébastian taking a nap but Sébastian had screamed for both Mummy and Daddy. She was surprised Sherlock had stayed, he didn't usually sleep let alone when he didn't have too, but nonetheless he'd fallen asleep too.

"I am too." She whispered.

They were both, of course referring to the day she'd returned to his bed after her unexpected leave from Sherlock at the Vanderbilt Townhouse. She'd left because she couldn't deal with the pregnancy, despite her promises to stay she couldn't, a baby changed everything. She'd ran across the globe but with no one to go to, to comfort her, to guide her she'd been forced to return. She never had explained to him why she'd ran, he guessed of course, he knew her so well and it once would have scared her, but now she was delighted to have somebody that knew who the real Irene Adler was.

Before either could say anymore they were interrupted by a moan from the dark haired, blue eyed boy that was 'supposed' to be sleeping. His long eye lashes fluttered open and his mouth made a slight 'O'.

"Mummy."

"Sébastian." Irene said, touching his nose gently.

Sébastian giggled at her touch and went to grab Irene's. He succeeded, and laughed when he squished it slightly.

"Are you not sleepy?" She asked.

Sébastian shook his head.  
>"Are you sure?" She drawled smiling at him.<p>

Sébastian nodded fiercly.

Sherlock stared at the two and smiled inwardly to himself. Who would have ever thought that a 'Purely Platonic' relationship with Irene Adler would have made him the luckiest man on the planet? And yes that was the only clique that Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective would ever use.

**A/N Ok, so I felt bad leaving one of my favourite stories at an unexspected end like that. CurlyWurleyMe I just want to say thank you for your comment about an epilogue, because if somebody hadn't have suggested it I probably wouldn't have written this. I'm intrigued myself as to where this is going so yes there probably will be a sequel! This is actually a big moment for me though, I havn;t actually ever properly finished a multi-chaptered fic before so it feels great to finally do so! Bye guys, thank you so much for your reviews and your feedback. x**


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